


On this journey your only heart

by mayachain



Series: birthday!verse [21]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cruciatus, Developing Relationship, Hogwarts Seventh Year, M/M, Resistance, Secret Relationship, Unreliable Narrator, low-key relationship, no black and white in war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 04:53:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 7,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayachain/pseuds/mayachain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco's only plan for his last year of school while the Dark Lord reigns not only the outside world but Draco’s own home is survival. As the year progresses his growing admiration for the resistant students means mere survival may not be an option.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. September

**Author's Note:**

> This is it! After five novembers of messing around with it the magic of this year's **mini_wrimo** has finally made me complete the [Birthday!verse](http://archiveofourown.org/series/6020)'s N/D backstory. The title is also courtesy of **mini_wrimo** community, which recently prompted this quote: "You must remain pure of heart on this journey...Be courageous but remember to also be noble and everything will be all right." ~Guadalupe Garcia McCall
> 
> Rated R for violence. No birthdays this time around.

The wealth of food the house-elves had prepared for the Sorting Feast looked as tempting as ever. Draco could barely bring himself to force down a biscuit, still trying to figure out how he was going to make it through his last year at school while the Dark Lord reigned not only the outside world but Draco’s own home.

Aunt Bella had sent him off to King’s Cross with the instruction to “Make me proud now, Nephew dearest.” Father had urged him to give word if he saw Potter on the train. Mother had said nothing, but her troubled eyes had besieged him to try his best not to draw attention to himself.

The trouble was, he could not afford to skirt positive attention.

The ride on the Hogwarts Express had been Potter-free and oddly quiet apart from the search interrupting its journey two hours in. Draco had spent most of it trying to find out which of the young witches was supposed to be Head Girl and thus his counterpart because of course the position had fallen to him. The train had seemed a lot emptier than usual; he had expected that. The full impact of the anti-Mudblood policy had not fully hit him until they had reached the castle and only three first-years had been Sorted, all into Slytherin.

The Mudbloods had always been part of the school. He had always derided them, despised them, perhaps occasionally envied them. For all that Slytherin House had pretended to have, taken pride in and rallied for purity among its ranks, there were Slytherins missing, too, and the reality of more than a third of Hogwarts’ students suddenly gone was inconceivable. Draco frequently caught Millicent staring at the empty places. Her expression was one of smug pride at her brother’s Sorting and the badge that no one had anticipated to ever ornate her chest, covering up incomprehension and terror.

Only the teacher’s table was as crowded as ever. Surprisingly, Hagrid seemed to still be there, Professor Trelawney looked as if she would rather _not_ be there, and there was a woman Draco had never paid attention to, never acknowledged the existence of, but now that he had watched her die he could not help but remark her absence. He identified her replacement, and this, too, he had vaguely anticipated. The new School Board had appointed a Carrow twin, and the other was seated beside her. 

The school had had a few days before these past summer holidays to just barely grow accustomed to Dumbledore’s absence, but Draco had not, despite having witnessed the old wizard’s death. He felt strangely reassured at the sight of Snape rising from the very chair that had once held Dumbledore and that for preciously few days must have belonged to Professor McGonnagal.

Professor Snape stood tall as he announced “The beginning of a new Age” and proceeded to instruct his students about the upcoming term, about what would be allowed this year and not, about expectations of conduct in and out of the common rooms, what certain subjects were now called and other changes to the curriculum, voice low, proud and piercing. About halfway through the speech a parchment appeared on their empty plates, a small concession that most would be too disconcerted to really listen. The derogatory annotations were – Draco thought – mere decoration. 

All four house tables were eerily quiet as students and teachers consumed their meals. The atmosphere at the Gryffindor table seemed especially subdued. Their number had been decimated the most; almost half the benches’ usual occupants were missing, and three adjoining empty seats in particular were making an impression, almost as if they had had Potter’s, Granger’s and Weasley’s names attached to them.

The faces of most non-Slytherins were angry, resigned, devastated, terrified. They all had to have known what things would be like upon their return, but still everyone appeared moving through a fog. Every member of Dumbledore’s old teaching staff looked drawn and impassive, but behind their veneer Draco thought he could almost sense the resistance. They were waiting for now, patient. For the first time he could remember Draco let himself believe the teachers might want the best for all the children because this seemed close to the brand of very skilfully suppressed fury he knew had possessed his mother all summer long.

The teachers were watching the Gryffindor table, some anxious – Flitwick, McGonnagal – some eagerly – the Carrows – all as if waiting for one of Potter’s sycophants making a stand on this very first evening. If Draco had not been trained by Narcissa Malfoy, had not let himself be put through a very thorough summer seminar in body language, he might have called the expression on the new headmaster’s face indifferent as he, too, let his eyes scour the Gryffindor table. Letting his eyes jump between that table and Snape’s face like a hiccoughing Snitch, his gaze successively landed on each Gryffindor’s drawn face before it all but settled between Longbottom and the sole remaining Weasley.

That evening Draco crawled into bed with a barely mumbled “G’night” while Blaise and Vincent of all people were still debating what they called “The virtues of our Lord’s immortality.” He understood Blaise putting up a good front in face of danger, but Zabini had no idea what he was talking about. As little as Draco wanted to discuss what had been happening at home over the summer, he knew his peers would not really be able to grasp it regardless and, if he ever had, he no longer knew if he could trust them.

He felt as if every wizard and witch in the castle had trampled on his soul. When he finally fell asleep, what kept him from screaming himself awake from twisted dreams was the memory of the resolve on Neville Longbottom’s face.

 

.


	2. October

Every morning, Draco woke up drenched in sweat and cursing the Acromantula’s web that had become his life. Every morning he saw the malicious looks in the Professors Carrow’s eyes and hoped for their sake that the remaining non-Slytherin students would display any sense at all. He had seen worse over the summer than what they had done so far, and he seriously doubted that anything either twin could think up could trump what he had seen, but he still never wanted to be anywhere near Alecto or Amycus when they were malcontent.

Whenever Longbottom’s gaze met his, it was cool in a way Draco had always tried for himself; not like Longbottom at all, calm and determined and not at all bashful. His first impulse had been to lash out at the other boy like he’d been used to. Get rid of some of his pent-up frustration, mock him for being stuck in Gryffindor Tower, him and Finnigan all alone. The words had long since stuck in his throat. 

No matter how quickly he made his way to a classroom, the seat he coveted the most – the seat that was most likely to keep him from being spotted in such a public space – invariably was already taken. It was hardly ever by the same person, but observation over time had revealed a pattern. 

Fighting the members of Longbottom’s followers for it would only draw attention. 

Draco wished he could talk to his mother. All summer long, it had been she who had held it together for him and his father, who had kept them alive, who had prevented worse punishment to be visited upon them than already had. She would know what he should do now, would know how to keep an eye on all the Slytherins for whom he had entirely against his expectation and will come to feel responsible. They were so naïve, they really had no idea about what a future under Lord Voldemort would looked like. Apart from Millicent and a few others, far too many seemed to believe the other Houses finally got what had been coming to them. 

Most of all, Mother would know what to make of Snape.

 

.


	3. November

The trimester had entered its seventh week when Draco had discovered his first lucky break: When he had looked up to face the Professor who had been about to start the lesson, a rare genuine smile at something Millicent had said still on his face, Professor Carrow’s eyes had been darting away from him and she had been _blushing_. ‘Interesting,’ Draco had thought after ascertaining that it had not really been _him_ the woman had blushed over. ‘Perhaps I should write Father a letter.’ It had not been the first time he had encountered an older witch or even wizard who had nursed a crush on Lucius Malfoy at school. If this could help him now even though Father had fallen from grace... well.

This morning’s lesson in Muggle Studies, on the other hand, marked a frightful demonstration of how little sense of self-preservation their pure blood status brought forth in the members of all the other three houses. Draco’s fellow Slytherins might not truly understand what was at stake, but with the chairs arranged in a half circle around Professor Carrow and each student within equal reach of her wand, they would never have risked as a blatant provocation as asking, “You're saying that the food Muggles and Mudbloods thrive best on is of the kind fished out of garbage cans?” 

Professor Carrow loved to talk about the infinite ways in which Muggles and Mudbloods were little more than animals. The more outrageous the theory, the more excited she got, an enchanted shine coming over her face. Even having had dinner with the Dark Lord it was a frightening sight, but it was a relatively harmless way to get through a lesson, even if they were all expected to take careful notes. 

It was a bit like Divination, Draco supposed, albeit with much harsher consequences if one made up the wrong answer. Longbottom and Finnigan had both earned themselves curses a few times when the tone they posed their questions in had been deemed too insolent. Macmillan had the highest success rate, his slow nasal voice almost always gaining him a pass.

There was something spellbinding about the way the remaining members of ‘Dumbledore’s Army’ baited the teachers, ran their heads against walls, sometimes managed to run circles around them and never gave up even when their situation was at its most dangerous. They had all witnessed Michael Corner’s fate when his pretence had slipped. Padma Patil was usually more careful than this. 

After the third curse hit her quivering back, not even Vincent and Gregory were laughing anymore.

Millicent’s grandmother was a goldmine. The woman was rumoured to once have burned a bunch of Muggles alive for daring to walk past her porch, and he remembered Millicent as a little girl, repeating her stories in an awed, whispering voice. It was a slight risk, seeing that she was sitting right there in the circle and might see through what he was doing, but Professor Carrow was not always careful with her aim when she was angry. Millicent likely wanted to get through the lessons unharmed as much as anyone. Maybe she would even help him once she caught on.

When it looked like Parvati would jump out of her chair to where Padma was weeping on the floor and the Professor's ring finger twitched as it habitually did heartbeats before she let loose with her wand, Draco’s hand rose almost without direction. It was completely unheard of, but it had begun to take hold inside his head, the thought that if even Hufflepuffs could do it the Head Boy should maybe, maybe stage an imperceptible rebellion of his own.

He would have to remember to imitate Lucius Malfoy at his most charming when he asked his question.

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a scene set in early December from Neville's point of view: [but in small secrets](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1055948)


	4. December

“Aunt Bellatrix, may I speak to you for a moment?”

She turned toward him, surprised, but then she grinned at him in the wild way he had learned not to trust: “Of course, my dear boy. What d’ you wish to know from your favourite Aunt?”

Draco swallowed drily and hoped she could not perceive just how nervous he truly was. “Before I left school, Professor Carrow implied that the school board will grant us Slytherins permission to apply the Cruciatus Curse after the holidays. It’s long past time, too. I have cast it before, of course, and I would say I am adequate at it, but I thought it wise to learn more about it, to aspire toward the true perfection that is _your_ work.”

Piercing eyes studied his face. “And you think I could give you better instructions than your teachers?” Draco took care to sniff at the mere thought. “You’re right, of course.” She was silent for a moment, and when she spoke again, she did not look like a mad Death Eater who had spent years and years in Azkaban. She looked like Mother, only darker.

She looked young.

“I gave up having children so I could better serve my Lord,” she said. “You’re Cissy’s son, pure Black blood in your veins. I feared you’d inherited too much weakness from your father, but perhaps I was wrong about that. You’re my only heir, in any case. You’re aware it was Licorus le Noir who invented the Cruciatus Curse?” 

Draco did not dare lower his eyes as he nodded. “In the 12th century.”

Pleased with his ready answer, she lifted her wand and let its tip playfully nudge his nose. “Perhaps it’s only right that you learn more about it.”

He followed her to the library, did not falter in his steps when she lead him to the darkest corner where she produced a knife and pricked both her left hand’s ring finger and his. The books at their backs were all from the Malfoy heritage. It made sense that there would be measures in effect if there were volumes here that belonged to the Black estate, to ensure that Father and his underlings could not touch, not even if a Black was directly involved.

A shelf shimmered into being once the drop of blood had cooled on his skin. About eighty books were chained side by side, their spines black. It was no less than he would have expected. 

Aunt Bellatrix’ hand went unhesitatingly to a thin volume, a diary. Her voice was full of emotions Draco had never heard from her as she handed it to him. “Read this, speak of it to no one and find _me, alone,_ if you have any questions.”

*

Lovegood in the cellar. Merlin.

Studying the priceless old parchment whenever his duties around the occupied house would allow, Draco thought it no wonder Aunt Bellatrix always spoke of the Cruciatus as an art form. It was laid out before him clearly, the perfect intertwinement of intent and hatred and pain. It had to be why it was rumoured – very quietly – that her Curse surpassed even the Dark Lord’s. If she had seen this and Lord Voldemort had not, which he could not have regardless of his power as he was not of Black blood... Even his most inspired attempts at the curse that was taught to and by outsiders could only ever emit a pale imitation of the original. Draco had never been more grateful to his mother for insisting he pay attention to Professor Flitwick; if he had not been able to read this in spite of almost seven years of the little gnome’s instruction, he did not think he could have stood the frustration.

The original, beautiful Curse was his to take, the yellowed parchment cool against his hand. When he had resolved to approach Aunt Bellatrix for advice he could never have imagined this. The possibilities were endless.

His nights were filled with dreams of the formulae. The exact right swerving of the wand, the perfect modulation of voice. Intent, hatred, precision. In his waking hours he could visualize the components, imagine himself reaching for them and putting them together at will. 

Used the right way, with the right skill, one could achieve what had been done to Alice and Frank Longbottom with a single thought. Draco now knew exactly what combination of the curse she had used, how she must have prolonged what she could have done much faster. “You must enjoy it,” Aunt Bella had always said, and she had been right. Yet it could not be done in a fit of rage, or originate from the verge of insanity, which might be her one limitation. The caster had to know exactly what he was doing, had to be of a perfectly clear mind.

In his weaker moments he thought about what might happen if he were to bring his findings to the Dark Lord. Lord Voldemort was far more obsessed with the Avada Kedavra, to be sure, but Licorus le Noir’s spell work certainly would be recognized as the gem it was. It might earn him forgiveness for failing to kill Dumbledore, might gain him recognition in his Lord’s eyes completely independent from his father.

But then he thought of the way Nagini always seemed to be staring at him, yellow eyes and malicious blink. Of how his mother had whispered no one could ever be safe within reach of the Dark Lord. The fact that she likely did not know about the diary did not make her wrong. 

Aunt Bellatrix would give the Dark Lord anything, _anything_ , yet Draco had come to the conclusion that even she had never made a copy of the diary. The formulae remained, as le Noir with his purported obsession with blood lines had intended, hidden even from a man who was likely descended from Salazar Slytherin.

 

.


	5. January

Upon his return to school Draco had to face the necessity of having to find someone to test his findings on, having narrowly escaped using Lovegood in a demonstration for Aunt Bella. For about half a minute, he considered asking one of the students, but that line of thought soon had him coming up in circles. He had been careful in the last weeks before Christmas to strengthen his position. While only fellow Slytherins might recognize him as such he considered himself a true Head Boy now, not just in name. Casting deficient spells on a student would defeat the purpose. Even if he were prepared to disregard status, the fact remained that he could trust no one.

When the idea finally came, he had to concentrate really hard to recall her name.

There were spaces in the Slytherin dungeons that only the highest-ranking students were told about. This in all likelihood excluded the Carrows. Headmaster Snape hardly ever ventured into the dungeons anymore. Draco supposed that Slughorn must also know, but despite his inviting certain students to his private quarters all the time, the old fart had never shown much interest in what his charges got up to.

He took a moment to check very carefully that the sound proofing spells were in effect and the walls were secure in the alcove he had chosen before he called her name. 

“Winky.” It came out as more of a squeak than he liked, and nothing happened so he coughed and tried once more, enunciating clearly and with authority, “ _Winky._ ”

There was a loud _crack_ and then she was sitting sprawled on the stone floor, clad in the filthy rags Crouch had given her all those years ago, hand wrapped around a bottle of Firewhiskey. Draco immediately scrunched up his nose at the stink but elected not to mention it, watching her blearily blink up at him.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked. It was an effort, but the voice he had always used when addressing Dobby was quickly coming back.

It took her a moment to answer, and he wondered if maybe she was too drunk to speak, but then it came out in a rush, “Yes, Master, Winky knows, Winky does, Dobby told her, spoke ill of his master, Dobby did, his master’s son youse is.”

“Do you know my name?”

“Master Draco, Sir,” the house-elf replied, and Draco was grateful that she skipped over the customary ‘young’.

“I wanted to talk to you, Winky,” he said to her. “Are you happy where you are?” The disgraced house-elf let out a wail. Thank Merlin for the wall. After a while he thought there might be some words in there, but it was impossible to make out any of them, so he gave up. “Would you like,” he tried to say but had to raise his voice to a shout, “would you like to belong to a family again?”

It shut her up. She lowered her bottle to the floor, gazed up at him teary-eyed. “Winky would love more than anything to belong someone, be a proper house-elf again, but Winky cannot, Master gave her clothes, has to always forever be free now.” It was a more coherent sentence than Draco had suspected her capable of getting out. He grabbed her arm to distract her before she could think to cry once more.

“I’ve thought about that,” he said. “You know how Dobby is supposed to be the Malfoy family’s house-elf, how it was only a dirty trick that got him his hands on those vile socks, that if my father hadn’t been tricked, the wretch would never have been released?” Staring at where he was touching her skin, face blanching, Winky nodded once. “If things had gone rightfully, the transaction would have been reversed, they would have made him our house-elf again.” Eyes fixed on his fingers, she nodded in agreement. “But he doesn’t want to do what is right and proper and come back to our family,” Draco said, a leading question, a statement.

“Dobby is a bad house-elf,” Winky whispered.

“Yes, he's a bad house-elf,” Draco agreed. “In fact, if he were to come crawling back to us now, I would not want him. I would not trust him not to search for a way to shirk his duties again. But _you_ want to be a good house-elf.”

“Winky is a bad elf,” Winky whispered hoarsely, “Winky displeased her Master...”

“But you _want_ to be a good elf,” Draco insisted. “And I believe if you got the chance, you would be an excellent one. You know what I think? I think the Malfoy family deserves another house-elf in compensation. And I think that you would fit that position perfectly.”

“Master Draco want Winky to belong to the Malfoy family?” Eyes full of wonderment, she did not sound the slightest bit drunk any more.

“It would have to be a secret,” Draco cautioned. “You would have to stay with me at the school. I don't want you at the Manor.” Drunkard or not, she had to have been more aware than she had let on because she did not protest; apparently, she did not want to go to the Manor in its current state, either. “If we were to go to Malfoy Manor, you would answer to my father, and my mother, before me. But if you were to stay on the school grounds with me – we could have an excellent working relationship.”

*

The first time, he was so nauseated he could hardly breathe. “This will hurt,” he warned, “I don't want to hurt you but I will, I have to try it, it's important.” ‘She's just a house-elf,’ he told himself. ‘Just a house-elf.’ “I want you to tell me on a scale from zero to hundred how much it hurts. I expect you to tell me the truth, I expect you not to lie to me, to tell me _exactly_ how it feels. Can you do that?”

“Winky can,” was the reply, “Winky will do for Master.”

“ _Crucio_ ”, he said, and he wanted to crawl into a hole and die when her trusting eyes filled with agonized pain and she writhed on the floor and sobbed.

‘She's a house-elf,’ he repeated to himself, ‘just a house-elf, her pain is of no matter, she's a creature, they don't really have feelings’, but the words he had heard used in reference to house-elves all his life sounded less and less convincing the longer she screamed.

“How much,” he said about half a minute later, and it was barely a whisper.

“Fifty-eight,” she gasped, and he had to blink, had to ask again.

“Are you sure?”

“Winky is sure, Master Draco,” she cried. “Winky does not lie.”

“I believe you,” he said quickly, “you did good. Thank you.” He had never said _thank you_ to a house-elf before, but after what she had just been through, done for him, what she would continue to do for him, she deserved it and so much more.

He was incredibly glad he had taken the time to search for a book that had told him what kind of healing potions were compatible to her physiognomy. Everybody knew about Winky's drinking problem, no one would be surprised if she were to show a decline in health, especially when there were so many other things to think of, but he had not wanted her to die before he had perfected his wand work. It took him by surprise how much he cared, but he now found he did not want her to suffer more than she had to.

“You cannot tell anyone,” he said again as he knelt down beside her, a small bottle in hand. “I explicitly forbid you to tell anyone what we're doing,” even though he already knew she would not.

Fifty-eight. It was far from perfect, but it was not as bad as it could have been. The next time he would do better; he already had several ideas on how to improve the casting.

*

The third time he tried, the spell did not go anywhere, its force dissolving against the wall, useless, his hand shaking too much. She ducked her head as he stood panting, then sidled up to him, wrapped her tiny hand around his wand and peeped quietly, “Master is kind, but Winky understands, Winky does, Master need not be afraid of hurting Winky.”

Draco looked down at her, at her hand around his wand, at the fingernails that looked newly scrubbed even though there were still scraps of dirt on them, and nodded. The elf returned his nod, released his hand and backed up, crawled in between the cushions he had conjured since the last time to stay her fall. Taking a deep breath, he focused again.

“ _Crucio_.”

He did not know whether to laugh or cry when she informed him later it was a sixty-nine.

*

Draco was not entirely sure why the new correctionist policy had not been made law already, other than that the Professors Carrow took great pleasure in dropping hints of what was to come, thereby tormenting the student body by way of terrified anticipation. He was grateful for the reprieve, especially since Alecto had more than once implied that she had soaring expectations of him given his relation to Aunt Bellatrix.

They were running out of time.

It was not until he witnessed Amycus Carrow cast a Cruciatus on Ginny Weasley that he became aware of how adept he had become at tuning out tortured screaming. He was not sure whether it was this or the fact that when Snape got to his feet, telling the Professor to “Cease, before you rend her unable to breed!” it looked, for a moment, as if the man still would not stop, that scared him most.

The Gryffindors suspected that the threats that they, too, would soon be made to cast the Unforgivable were not idle, as did the Ravenclaws. If the Hufflepuffs did not, they were far more stupid than even Vincent or Gregory were ready to give them credit for. The more nervous they got, the more difficult it became to overlook their whispers and the more gleeful too many of his fellow Slytherins became in anticipation.

Draco knew he was far from the only one with hands-on experience with the Cruciatus curse. Mrs Parkinson, for one, was said to be an excellent caster and was sure to have shown Pansy one or two tricks during the holidays if not before. He expected Blaise’s and Theodore’s performances to be decent, and he suspected that despite the intricacy of the true curse, the diluted form was one that even Vincent and Gregory would be able to manage. 

Down in the dungeons, Draco lifted his wand and took a step toward Winky again and again. His performance _must_ outshine all others’, else whatever control he had built up might slip away from him.

*

By the end of January, it had become a routine. The other Slytherins still assumed that his responsibilities as Head Boy were consuming him as much as they did Millicent, and he was hopeful that his climbing success rate meant he could soon stop sneaking around so often. After all, there was nothing like _not_ acting suspiciously to avoid suspicion.

When he entered his and Winky’s secret training alcove on the last day of the month, the elf was already sitting on top of the small table with her legs dangling down, waiting for him. Beside her, she had put the tea and biscuits she now always brought for later. Spotting Draco, she hopped down from the table and climbed between the cushions, completely unafraid, and looked up at him, determined.

There was no flinch when he whipped out his wand, and his “ _Crucio!_ ” sounded strong and sure. He watched her small body jerk, limbs contorting in evident pain. He was waiting for her with the tea when it finally stopped. She reached for her cup, fingers trembling, eyes shining.

“Master,” she breathed, and his heart skipped a triple beat when she told him her number.

 

.


	6. February

Dumbledore’s Army travelled in pairs. Finding one of them alone, and the boy who had replaced Potter as their leader at that, proved damn near impossible. Draco almost despaired and started to make plans around catching Longbottom with someone else around, which could only go wrong. After three days of aborted attempts, however – he was running out of _time_ , damn the Carrows – Winky cracked into existence while he was busy in the bathroom and said breathlessly, “Master Neville is alone, Masters Seamus and Terry just left him in the Greenhouses!” Draco barely took the time to tuck himself back into place before he took off at what despite the necessary stealth still counted as a run.

It was not the first time he wished he had some kind of map like Potter must have. How else could he have slunk around the castle like he had? Why couldn’t _Draco’s_ father have left him something useful like that?

He _had_ a house-elf on his side. For all the pain and tears she had put into the project, Winky seemed pretty excited. He only hoped he was not going to find out their test results were inaccurate because elf and human physiognomy were too different and his intended compensation for it did not work.

As expected, Longbottom had set up a few plants to guard his back. Draco doubted Finnigan and Boot would have left him vulnerable otherwise. They had made that mistake a few times at the beginning, but they had learned fast. What they had not learned – and why should they have? – was that the plants grown on the school grounds _liked_ house-elves. Winky cooed softly at the flesh-eaters that had detected them and remained seated amidst their vines while Draco crept out of their reach unharmed.

Longbottom was working silently humming to himself. Draco felt a faint twinge of guilt for interrupting his rare peaceful moment. The other never saw the “ _Stupefy!”_ ” coming.

“I most sincerely apologize for the inconvenience, Longbottom,” Draco said as he secured the opposing wand and waved a silent Levicorpus, “but your cooperation is of the utmost importance.” He could read the shock on the DA leader’s face, anger both at Draco for sneaking up on him and at himself for letting himself be snuck upon. There was not even a twitch as Draco Levitated him through a door, but Draco knew that inside the petrified body Longbottom was putting up a valiant struggle. 

“I would have asked more politely if I'd thought you would accompany me voluntarily; sadly, I found that possibility highly unlikely.” There were only beds of moss inside this room. Far from ideal, but it would have to do. “ _Silencio_ ,” he added even though Longbottom was still not moving as Draco leaned him against the wall and raised his wand. He felt completely calm now.

“ _Renervate_. _Crucio_ ,” he said.

There was a flash of defiance in Longbottom’s eyes that morphed into a look of sheer panic just before the second spell hit him. After that there was nothing to do but watch all one hundred and eighty pounds of Neville crash to the ground, limbs jerking grotesquely with no voice to accompany his screams.

Draco let it go on for several seconds, counting silently to seventy-nine. When he pointed his wand to the side, Longbottom was left lying on the floor with hands and feet still shaking, panting. He slowly rolled over onto his back and stared up at Draco in plain and utter astonishment.

 _Now_ Draco’s heart pounded as if he were due an audience with the Dark Lord. This, this was it, there was no going back. Longbottom knew everything now.

 

.


	7. March

“We do not wish you to go insane,” Professor Snape said with a pointed flick of his eyes in Neville’s direction and the barest hint of a smile. “Cursing each other until you can no longer attend classes will not be tolerated. As a precaution, each student will be allowed to use no more than one Cruciatus a week, two if you are seventh year, three for the prefects, four for the Head Boy and Head Girl. If it becomes necessary, this privilege will be taken away. If you act responsibly, we will increase your allotment.”

Professor Carrow did not look happy at all. Draco did not know where or how the headmaster had got such a level head to not only successfully stall the policy change this long but to insist on these rules.

The thankfulness faded slightly when Professor Snape added, “However, should you fail to use your designated amount of curses, a subject to cast your curse upon will be pointed out to you.”

*

Four days later, Draco watched a sobbing Ginny Weasley cast what looked like a half-hearted Cruciatus on a terrified second-year Hufflepuff. If he had not spent hours on end listening to every shade of inflection in his own voice and watching the slightest changes in the effects it had on Winky, he would not have been able to tell. Even now, impressed that her emotional state was allowing any kind of effective-looking curse at all, he could not be completely assured. 

Every student from fifth year upward was watching the procedure with wide eyes. At this very moment, not even Vincent Crabbe was feeling gleeful, Neville Longbottom was resolutely not covertly looking in his direction and if it had not worked, if he had made a mistake, if he had failed to explain properly or Neville had failed to convey his instructions in some way...

Draco was not certain he could take it if Alecto Carrow managed to break the amazon-like bull headed defiance that was Ginny Weasley.

There were a lot of Ravenclaws in the DA. The parts Neville might not have understood himself, Draco was almost convinced Padma and her house mates had interpreted and found a way to apply correctly.

He was watching for it, waiting for it, so he caught the looks that were very carefully not exchanged between Weasley and the kid and then Weasley, Neville, Patil and Finnigan.

As he walked back to the dorm, he could not help but smile faintly. If any of the others caught it and took it as cold-hearted glee, so much the better.

.


	8. April

Potter. At the Manor. 

Weasley. Granger.

Lovegood.

Merlin.

He was not sure. He was not sure because he had watched Gryffindor tactics from afar since the school year began. Finnigan had let himself be caught to spare others more than once. Who said that the disfigured wizard, if it was a wizard, was not a polyjuiced decoy to distract them while Potter executed some other plan? 

There were two rules to survival in this house and they were doing what one was told and keeping one’s head down. 

Claiming ignorance was _not_ a good way to do either. It was still better than confirming Potter’s identity and being proved wrong. 

Granger and Weasley might die, as might Potter, if it was he. Draco would not risk his mother’s life to try and free them, much less his own. He had never once fooled himself into believing he could cast a Cruciatus or any other curse at Aunt Bellatrix. Even disregarding the aftermath, he would never be able to achieve the sufficient level of calm over his fear. 

As long as Aunt Bella still needed confirmation her prisoners had time to think of something. 

They were wily. They might die but they might also escape, and if they got thrown into the cellar for a time there was at least a chance that one of them would get Lovegood home.

.


	9. May

The Dark Lord had been dead for two hours when Draco finally could bring himself to let go of Mother long enough to escape his parents. 

He was almost afraid to call out. He knew there were dead among the house elves. Vincent’s cries were a haunting echo in his ear, and Draco did not know if he could take losing her, too, but he had to know.

“Winky,” he whispered, and then she was there, wailing in subdued tones and clinging to his leg. “I’m alright, I’m fine, are you hurt?” he asked her. She shook her head, looked down at scrapes and bruises on her arms and assessed, “Ten.” Already reaching for a vial, he had to smile wryly. It looked like a twenty at least, but compared to what he had done to her after Christmas, a ten or twenty or even a thirty would hardly register.

“Do you know what happened to the Slytherins?” Draco asked while she drank the potion down. He had not seen any of them after sneaking away, thinking only that with the Dark Lord bringing _his parents_ to the school he had to be seen doing _something_. Gregory, once it had become clear that no one was going to immediately arrest them, had since wandered off in search of his second-year cousin.

“They was fleeing to Hog’s Head with the other children and taking port key to safe place,” Winky said. Of course McGonnagal had had a plan. Snape probably had had a plan, as well, but McGonnagal had driven him right out of a window and then...

Focus. He might not be Head Boy for much longer, might even now hold the position only in name, again, but his charges’ safety came second only to his family’s and was more important than one Headmaster’s fate. They might face trouble from their class mates once they all learned the outcome of the war.

On the other hand, they had Millicent, Daphne, Theodore, Blaise and even Pansy to keep an eye on them. Just like Draco should have kept an eye on – 

“I’s can find Master Vincent for you, give him burial,” the elf offered. Only then did Draco realize that he had said the name out loud. “Ashwinders be there now, but I’s can take special broom to sweep up remaining ash.”

Lumps in his throat, Draco nodded. He did not know whether the elder Crabbe’s had survived the battle and knew that their future lay in Azkaban if they had, but Gregory might benefit from a unempty gravesite. “Thank you.” In lieu of something better to do he made himself lead the house-elf toward the place Potter had saved his life.

There were no bodies in the corridors. He had not noticed it before, too self-absorbed in his haste to get down to the dungeons, but someone must have found the time to levitate them all into the Great Hall while Draco was still clinging to and being hugged by his parents.

Everyone seemed to be gathered in one place, which was fine with Draco. He did not want to be intercepted by anyone.

Stumbling upon Neville was not the plan. 

He was sitting by a crumpled fountain and turning the Hat over and over in his hands. He looked even greyer than when Draco had last seen him, sitting at an altogether too still Colin Creevy’s feet. Draco halted his steps, only half aware of Winky looking curiously between them. 

Come word of mouth and the press, the Slayer of Nagini was sure to acquire a veritable fan club. Right now, everyone was still either mourning the dead or chasing after Potter. Even his formidable grandmother was nowhere in sight.

This might be his only chance.

There was a _crack_ as Winky disapparated.

Neville did not look up at the sound, nor when Draco shook himself and approached. Neither did he give an obvious sign that Draco should leave him alone, so Draco took his heart in his hands and settled down beside him. 

They sat at the edge of the fountain, looking down at the silent Hat, Neville slumping the tiniest bit into Draco’s side, and did not say a word.

 

.


	10. June

When he first arrived in a near-dead heap of blood and limbs in their entrance hall, Mother was not sure if Snape would survive. Draco helped her Levitate the unconscious man onto one of their now-many spare beds, Scourgify his wounds and fill him up with healing potions from the Dark Lord’s Potion’s Master’s residue stock. It would mark the only time Draco ever was thankful that Voldemort had turned their home into a well-stocked headquarter.

Eventually, though, it became apparent that while the man would feel the effects of Nagini’s bite for a long time, likely for the rest of his life, he would live. 

Father had not really been up to much of anything for some time, especially after having had to spend several days and nights in an Azkaban prison cell, again. It was clear that he was uncomfortable with their house guest, afraid that their family’s only barely and not entirely redeemed status might be compromised. It was equally clear that Mother considered herself honour-bound to house and take care of the man who had once sworn an Unbreakable Vow for her son, and that she was not asking for her husband’s permission.

When Severus finally managed to stay awake for more than a minute at a time, Draco asked him which of the sixteen empty bedrooms he would prefer. They had put him in the same quarters he had always stayed in, but Draco himself could barely stand to stay in his own room and he had plenty of happy memories from before the War to draw on.

They celebrated the day Severus managed to make it down the stairs into the library.

 

.


	11. July

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a companion piece to this chapter's first scene from Neville's point of view: [the life we're having](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1055966).

In the end it was easier than Draco would have thought, inviting Neville to his home. His father had raised an eyebrow, but the man had lost every ounce of the spark he used to have throughout the better part of Draco’s life. Just this once, Draco guiltily caught himself not regretting that he might never get it back, that it had become this easy to stare Lucius Malfoy down.

Neville would never have agreed to come if Aunt Bellatrix had survived. But the woman was dead, and as the War would have been provably, miserably lost without Narcissa, Alice Longbottom’s son had conceded to having tea in the same house and even at the same table as her torturer’s blood sister. Mother had only cautioned Draco to keep away from the northern wing as a consideration toward their guest. 

Their guest himself had not really commented on Neville’s first visit, had only looked at Draco curiously the next day during breakfast.

*

All summer long, Mother had run around the Manor, pale cheeks flushed red and yelling purification charms, trying to purge the Dark Lord’s presence from the house. Draco had refused to let her into his room, had gone over every inch of it himself and had Winky fortify his work, then washed it until the old wood and marble sparkled with a cleansing potion he brewed under the watchful eyes of an uncharacteristically yet understandably non-vocal Professor Snape.

It would take a long time until the Manor truly felt like home again. The only place any of them – Mother, Father, Severus, Draco and, as was becoming apparent, Neville – felt comfortable was the breakfast dining room.

Now, Mother was starting to talk about throwing parties, “To impress upon the world that we are here, to show our pride,” and Draco thought about revealing his house-elf so that she could help her, considered making appearances and forcing himself to endure polite conversation. 

He made a note to regularly disappear upstairs as soon as circumstances allowed. Maybe he could even persuade Severus to claim he needed his assistance and lock the two of them in his rooms.

*

It was several hours before Neville was due for the private birthday tea they had planned since neither Draco nor Neville fancied announcing themselves to the whole of Dumbledore’s Army just yet. Black eyes were watching curiously as Draco Scourgified his four times great-grandmother’s best plates until Draco could not stand it anymore. “What?” he exclaimed, exasperated.

Severus’ scrutinizing expression was entirely too calm. “Your guest,” he whispered. 

Draco’s gripped the ancient plate as his heart plummeted. He did not know what he would do if the man thought it was too much of a risk, or even if he simply disapproved. 

“I would like to meet him,” Severus rasped, and Draco blinked at him, surprised, but he could breathe again.

“I’ll. I’ll introduce you,” he stammered, and they both smiled. Severus had known Neville Longbottom for seven years, and Neville had known Professor Snape for seven years, but neither had really known the other. Perhaps if Draco really performed an introduction it would not come out as a parody but the beginning of something true.


End file.
